


To forget, is to change

by StripedScribe



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gun Violence, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Season/Series 03, Shooting, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 08:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18245783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripedScribe/pseuds/StripedScribe
Summary: When you forget who you are, and who you love, how are you supposed to act?A patrol gone wrong, Matt loses his memory, but not his training. He acts in a way Stick would be proud of, but his father would be ashamed, acting without thought, without reason, and without remorse. And what happens to Foggy, in this world where Matt doesn't know he exists?





	1. Forgotten

He awoke, blankness smothering him, before everyone rushed in at once. Smells, sounds, textures. Cool air, settling in a small space, trapping the stench of hundreds of others in a metal box. ‘Dumpster’ his clouded mind supplied, followed briefly by ‘Again.’ What sort of person was he to be this acquainted with a dumpster?

Everything around him was too much, the smells of weeks of rubbish, discarded takeaway, cigarettes, animal waste. Somewhere, a dead animal, the scent of death and decay soaking deep into his clothes and skin. It was damp, rotten food, rain and sweat lining his temporary prison. Blood, his own, others, embedded into his skin, his hair, his clothes. 

Outside, bouncing off tin, the sound of rain, each droplet illuminating the space, a rhythm beating out over the thousands of hearts in the city. The noise, each breath they all took, each heartbeat, creak of bones. A cacophony of tuneless instruments, skipping beats, speeding up, slowing. And the noise those bodies made, creaking floorboards, disturbing still air. The shouting, the singing, the talking, the whispering. A child, piercing cries into the air, causing a wave of noise as their neighbours joined in, human and animals howling, crying, expecting comfort. Electricity, buzzing through the overhead cables, jumping into people’s homes, powering everything, everything buzzed, everything moved with power. Static, a voice crying out, not accompanied by any sign of life, a speaker left on in an empty room. Gunfire, he jolted, remembered this onslaught of information was attached to a body, of someone who reacted to gunfire, whoever he was. But it was so loud, too loud, and he retreated again, back into the safety of an overloaded brain. The shooting stopped, and amongst the thousand heartbeats, one danced its last dance in a flurry of pain, before falling silent for the last time. He should go help. But the walls seemed to be caving in under the noise.

He was trapped, alongside stale air, circulating in this dull space, unable to join the world outside. A stranger to what had happened, would happen, where did you go when you didn’t remember who you were?

The world rushed back to a sense of normalcy as something in his mind reminded him of how to filter, of how to concentrate, meditate, and pick up on only what he needed to. Climbing out the dumpster, he took stock of his injuries, grimacing in pain, filing away that for later.

At least it was dark now, the air much cooler, the streets quieter, he could get to somewhere safer without anyone seeing him. There was ripped fabric over his eyes, he took it off, stuffing it into a pocket to be burnt later. His hand touched cool metal in his pocket, a singular key, to a safehouse? His home?

Limping, he headed out the alley to the street, not knowing where he was going, but trusting his feet to carry him to wherever this key belonged. Left arm wrapped around his ribs, muffling the pain which wished to burst out in a scream.

He felt eyes on him, people looking at him, moving away from him, as he walked, stumbled, down the street, hand catching himself against the wall. Stopping, he pulled up his hood, hiding his face, his useless eyes, in shadow. At best they could just assume he’s drunk, and not concussed or freaking out about memory loss. Not that he’s trusting some part of his memory to know where he belongs, not when he can’t even remember his own name. When everything hurts, so so much, each bone feels bruised, each muscle torn, each step sending a bolt of red hot pain to his skull. At least the buildings stood still, even as the world threatened to topple over, to take him out. A crossroad, he prayed as he crossed the tarmac, but for who or what he wasn’t sure. Familiar scents wafted past, coffee, gun oil, a memory attempting to bud to the surface, before being washed away again.

Turning down a street, he nearly collided with a stranger, who pushed him away, disgust in their voice. ‘Dude, get yourself home, you’re a mess.’ He tripped, landing on the floor, wet, cold, litter, before pulling himself back up, sharply inhaling, biting away the tears that threatened to fall. If he concentrated, he was certain his arm was broken, fractured, a creaking sound emerging through the blanket of pain and bruises.

He thought, he hoped, he was nearly there. His aimless wandering had dragged him back down into an alley, and up to the rooftops, where the noise of the city filtered up untouched. A leap, scrabbling for the ledge, before slowly, too weakly, pulling himself back up, gasping at the close call.

A door, rooftop access, locked. But the key fit, it must be a safehouse of his. Barely decorated, very little food, basic amenities. Somewhere to spend the night at least, until he could remember who he was, and where he belonged. Silk sheets on the bed, at least he must have money, and the clothing fit, braille tags on each item, and labelling the food in the cupboards. In a cupboard, hidden, a suit, his suit, along with a collection of canes, coats, shoes. A well lived in home then, or a safehouse he stayed in regularly? It was too poorly equipped to survive in for too long.

It was late, he was tired, and perhaps after some sleep his memory would return? He could only hope, and threw his dirty, bloody clothes into a bag, to deal with them later. On edge, he double checked the doors, both locked, before taking a knife with him, who knew what enemies he had in the area, or if anyone else shared this safehouse. Anyone who got in would be seen as an enemy, and dealt with accordingly.


	2. Stranger

Sleep came to him in fits, plagued by vague nightmares, of fights, of deaths. Of being trapped, under rubble, dying over and over again. Memories with sight, a man fighting in the ring, leaving battered black and blue, red blood dripping. Fighting with allies, or alone, against groups and groups of enemies. He bolted awake as a woman died in his arms, her heartbeat slowing, slowing, stopping.

Breath coming in sharp bursts, he fell silent as footsteps appeared outside his door. A key, scratching against the door before opening, soft soft footsteps stepping in as the door closed again. “Matt? You here? I saw you on the news, you looked in rough shape, need a hand?”

Heart thudding with fear and thrill, he stood, standing behind the wall, hidden from view. Who was this Matt? Someone else who used the safehouse? He wasn’t the sort of person to have people checking up on him, too dangerous to have family, to have friends. As the stranger slowly stepped into the main room, he clenched the knife, pointing it, ready, waiting.

“Matt? Fuck.”

“Who the hell is Matt and why are you here?!” He growled, stepping from his hiding place, grabbing the stranger, holding the knife to his throat.

“Shit.” The stranger whispered, gulping in fear. “You’re Matt, you’re my best friend, my partner. I thought you might be hurt so I came to check on you.”

”Lies! I have no one.”

“Matt, please, please, you’re scaring me, you must have hurt yourself, why can’t you remember me?” He held onto the stranger tighter, not noticing his hands on his phone, as he silently dialled.

How could he get rid of him? If he killed him he’d have to abandon this safehouse, get away from this area. Unless he managed to get him somewhere else, where it could look more like a mugging gone wrong.

”MY NAME ISN’T MATT. I HAVE NO NAME.” He growled, grinning as the knife drew a little blood, a worthwhile punishment for someone trying to sneak up on him whilst he was sleeping.

“Okay, okay, I know you’re scared bud, I know you don’t understand. How about we put the knife down? You’re kinda hurting me, it’s cutting into me.

”No.”

”Okay, okay. Talk to me bud, what’s happening here. Listen to my heart, I don’t want to hurt you, I can’t, I have nothing on me that can hurt you.”

Tilting his head, he listened, remembering how to track someone’s heart, remembering how to detect a lie. 

“You still got that one bud? Hey, I don’t want to hurt you, I’m worried about you, it’s just you and me bud, can you let me go? I’m scared, you’re hurting me, I don’t want to hurt you, I want to help you. Your name is Matt, you’re a lawyer, you’re Daredevil. You live here, we’re in your apartment, we’re law partners, you see the good in everyone.”

Fear dripped off the stranger in waves, perhaps he was telling the truth, his heart ticked steadily, although fast, but that might be partially due to the knife held against his throat. Someone not well acquainted with violence or danger, soft to the world they lived in. They at least believed it was the truth, but the person he described was nothing like the person he felt he was. He shouldn’t be the sort of person who had friends, who had family, he was a soldier, a machine, a devil.

“I, I don’t understand, that’s not me, I don’t know who I am.”

”You must have hit your head when you were out bud, suffered some pretty bad memory loss. How about we see if we can get you to the hospital, get you checked out?”

”NO. No hospitals, they’re too dangerous, they can’t know what I am.”

”Well at least you haven’t lost that bud. Hey, do you remember Claire? Your nurse friend? How about I see if she can come take a look at you here.”

”No.”

”Okay, okay.”

”Shut up. I need to think about what to do with you.”

“Let me go? I can leave Matt, come back when you’re feeling more yourself. Talk to me bud, tell me what you’re thinking.”

“You know where I live now, that’s too dangerous. If you go, who knows who you’ll tell. No, you need to stay. Or I need to get rid of you.”

“Oh.” The stranger’s knee’s buckled, before standing up again, neck craning away from the knife, even as copper dripped to the floor. “Matt, just give me some time, I’m sure you’ll remember, please please remember.”

They both stiffened as they heard footsteps outside, 4 men, wearing heavy boots. Carrying guns. He dropped the stranger, whirling around to face him.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“I’m sorry Matt, I’m sorry, I was so scared.” The stranger remained on his knees, quaking in fear.

“POLICE!” The door bounced open, the men storming in, guns trained on the scene in front of them, trained on him. 

As though in slow motion, he threw his knife, listening to the slow arch of the metal glide through the air, landing with deathly accuracy. A burst of copper filled the air, before the body slumped to the ground. The stranger’s heartbeat finally slowed from it’s gallop to a trickling pace.

“Shit. WE NEED A MEDIC IN HERE! Get him out, get him out.”

He wouldn’t make it though, too injured for that. His work was done, his secret safe. 3 men, now that one had left with the intruder. He’d have to chase him down later, make sure no one else survived. But for now, to deal with the three guns pointing at him.

He jumped into action, weapon-less, towards them. Slowed by his injuries, he was soon knocked to the ground, bullets shattering the glass behind him, embedding in the walls, and in his body.

It was over so soon. Too soon. He lay on the floor, gasping for breath through blood filled lungs, even as they dragged his useless body outside. As his world faded, one single name came to his mind, and with it, a lifetime of memories.


End file.
